


Beyond the Veil

by electricghoti



Series: Tenebrium/Take Flight [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Feels, Gen, Humor, Inspired by Art
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2015-02-23
Packaged: 2018-03-14 19:12:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3422408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electricghoti/pseuds/electricghoti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on a two part fan art by slayerofkillabee.tumblr.com<br/>Solas finds a room deep in the Temple of Sacred Asses in which to craft a copy of the perfect butt. Lavellan's, obviously. He shares his pain with Abelas and asks him to watch over Lavellan (somewhat reluctantly). Abelas agrees to Solas' request to leave her in his very capable hands. This not intended to be a serious work, and is probably pretty anti-canon. Best to see the fan art first, then read the story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beyond the Veil

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Temple of Sacred Asses Pt1](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/99998) by slayerofkillabee. 
  * Inspired by [Temple of Sacred Asses Pt2](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/100001) by slayerofkillabee. 



> Perspective changes after "Abelas was no stranger to sorrow."

It was fitting, in a way. He had hid amidst the ruins of the temple where it began. The bones of a corpse that had been raised and defiled before being cast back to crash into the earth. The place where an orb split into pieces that reminded him of yet another thing that had been lost.  
Her.  
The part of her that he had seen the most. The part that he would remember most fondly while he tread paths he would never wish on his greatest enemy. Two pieces. Each a perfect mirror of the other, and each filled his hands in a way he had not seen since... Since a time that was once new to him, but faded for her. He smiled, soft and sad. He would not be able to be behind her now. Not anymore. He cupped his hands in the air in front of him as if he could feel her body before him. Her face is beautiful. Her spirit rare.  
Her butt...was perfect.

He had little time to spare being wistful and wishing of what was lost. "Now," he thought with determination, "I can at least preserve her memory in this place so others will know of her." Armed with purpose, he navigated the fallen temple with measured steps. Surely there were still places intact that would suit his needs. The tunnels lead everywhere into the mountains, or so early scouting reports had noted. Her soldiers were no longer here, nor would they have reason to be. There were other concerns for them now that demanded more attention than a battleground and a missing elf. His chest pinched at the thought. Her spymaster would be less willing to overlook his background or his timely introduction to the Inquisition.  
Would she continue to search for him? Had he wounded her enough that she would stay her hand? He had been so close and yet...he would not, could not reveal the truth of himself. He prided himself on sharing the truth, but in her love he was distracted from his duty. This was not a thing he could give up. Not even for her.  
The ground sinking beneath his foot abruptly broke his thoughts; he softly cursed aloud as he stumbled, bracing himself on a pillar to prevent falling over. The idea that she surprised him by garnering his full attention even here was not lost on him. Luckily for him, the hole was mostly earth soft enough to swallow his ankle. He easily pulled his foot free and shook briefly to dislodge lingering dirt or pebbles. 

 

As he returned his gaze upward, he was struck with awe at the sight.  
While distracted he hadn't noticed, but the pillar that broke his fall was merely one of several that marked the entrance to a room only revealed by the destruction that came before. These were no simple stone blocks. They were smooth columns of marble with lightly curved indentations around the middle and more ornate swirls in the stonework on each end. A skilled mason had crafted feathered patterns crowning the pillars leading to a room of spartan decoration, yet infinite potential.  
Stepping through the doorway, he nodded approvingly at the treasure left inside, nearly as pristine as it was when first build. Vaulted ceilings still held fabric and banners declaring its intent for all stepping through the door. Embroidered and tasseled and still holding the bright colors of dye. The lettering bold against the background.  
The Temple of Sacred Asses. He approved. It was the perfect place.

While no king's riches of silver and gold were hidden here, an array of mason's tools were layed out in front of a simple pillar. It had no ornate decoration and commanded no attention at merely being hip height. A squared chunk of stone nearly as tall as himself sat atop it, smooth and uncracked. This was a blank canvas that was intended to be the true centerpiece of the room. A large square table to this left with blank metal plates, small corked vials, and other miscellaneous equipment. Sheets of paper with inked diagrams were spread to one side. Presumably blueprints for whoever was to be immortalized in this room. At least before whatever tragedy struck in the past. 

It didn't matter now. He brought a hand up to the jawbone necklace absently, the pad of his thumb rubbed a polished portion of the hinge worn from years of idle fingers. This marked the start. Skyhold was hers. This is will be her.  
Approaching the blank stone on the pillar, he began to clear his mind to the exclusion of all but his intent and her profile from behind. There would be no distractions here. He bent down to select his first tool and began to work.

 

A final sanding. A final smoothing. He stepped back to appraise his creation. His eyebrows furrowed in some frustration while he pursed his lips together. He had intended to capture all of her. He had intended a full bust and torso in her likeness, posed with a crooked stance and her hands on her hips. He had intended for her face to be turning, as if to face him. It was a posture she deliberately took when she caught him staring. Confident and teasing and just for him.  
His heart.

Like many things since he awoke, his intentions failed to get the results he desired. Still, as he slowly walked around the statue, he couldn't help but thing that in this case, things mercifully went better than expected. He smoothed the flat surface where her arms should have been, wiping away bits of leftover dust he missed.  
It was probably better this way, he mused. Her arms cutting off at the shoulder meant no distraction from her hips, and turning her head to only show the back of her hair meant he (and any any viewer) could imagine any expression he wanted. It was definitely better this way, he decided, coming around to cup each butt cheek in hand appreciatively. He had made sure to be very precise in this area of her body. The butt should definitely be the focus.  
It was certainly his focus for awhile. 

It was not yet perfect. A plaque marking her name and year of 'discovery' was to be situated on the front of the pillar the statue rested on. A crafted sign to the left would simply say 'don't' and another to the right a similar one marked with the phrase “quality ass” stood as guardians. It would not do for those in the future to wear away perfection with streams of hands in admiration, nor have those with no artistic sense miss the premise of the piece.

 

There was yet one more task he must accomplish before returning to his duty. He could not be with her, but she should have a guardian. She should have someone who could protect her in his absence and be the knowledge repository in which her curiosity could be sated. Someone with boundless loyalty and (for selfish reasons) someone he could connect to in order to keep tabs on her Inquisition. In short.  
His heart should not be alone.

He knew it was a silly gesture. It was not necessary in the slightest to bring him here, yet he still felt compelled to share his work with the Sentinel. Perhaps he felt the keenness of loneliness too sharply to simply speak of her on the way to Skyhold. Perhaps he just needed kinship of someone who was as misplaced in this world as he. In either case, Abelas seemed not to mind the detour to view his work. The ancient elf was his usual stoic self, though listened intently to the stories and snippets of memory he was shared about the subject of the statue. Always her. Always his heart. He simply could not bear the loss. His throat closed and the tears that always prickled behind his eyes released in full force. He dropped to his knees in front of his love's behind and wept, hands raised in front of him in a gesture that both seemed to cup her butt from a distance and beg for mercy for his foolishness.

Abelas was no stranger to sorrow. He stood quietly by the Dread Wolf's side for a short while in compassionate silence to give the man some privacy for his sadness. He appeared appropriately grim as he placed a hand on Pride's shoulder, quietly offering “Ir abelas, bro-” in sympathy. The kneeling man interrupted his condolences, speaking in fits and starts, “I knew her once. Knew..heart. Knew her booty.” He shut his eyes in despair, clenching his hands tightly for several seconds before reopening them, and ending with,” I-I let it go.”

Pride had worn himself out from the emotional display and seemed to be regaining some control over himself. He sat on the ground with his knees bent up, where his elbows could rest as he covered his eyes with his hands. He seemed drained and inwardly focused in this moment, so Abelas took the opportunity to wander to the informational sign to the right.  
Something was missing from the display.  
The statue, he noted appreciatively, was of fine quality and warranted additional admiration after he added a crucial piece of missing information. Willing a line of magic to his index finger was a simple matter. He raised his finger to the sign as if it were a finger painting, paused briefly to sharpen his magic to an etching point, then began to write. The script was precise, yet less tightly controlled than the original below it. He was unsure if it would later be considered graffiti due to the obviously different handwriting, yet he still felt the need to quantify what the Wolf had merely generalized. 

The sparking sound of his magic against the metal sign drew the attention of its original crafter. By the time Abelas finished, the Dread Wolf had appropriately looked like the expression of his namesake. At least, until he had turned to allow a view of the finished product.  
“11/10 Archdemon quality ass.” 

 

The subsequent expressions seemed a complicated mix of anger, horror, bafflement, and disgust before settling wholly on confusion. “Archdemon?” Pride questioned incredulously, rising to his feet. The man was torn between tearing down the “vandalized” sign and shaking Abelas by the shoulders. The sentinel raised a gauntlet to his mouth, the other on his hips. If he had a beard, he would be stroking it. Instead, he matter of factly stated, “In Uthenara I saw a spirit take the shape of what seemed a blighted, monstrous dragon. It had an impressive figure from behind. Butt and thighs.”

While Abelas stepped close to the statue the sign described, the Wolf proceeded to cover his face with his hands in a manner that suggested he had just heard a child describe vegetables as “icky” for the umpteenth time in a day. The Sentinel simply shrugged and slid a hand appreciatively over the masterwork crafted butt of stone. Right cheek first. Left cheek second. He had just cupped one in each hand before the Wolf stopped him with a startled, “A-Abelas?” He turned toward the sound, leaving his left hand resting between the cheeks and another back on a cocked hip. He raised his eyebrows in inquiry, offering an innocently stated “What?” in response.

The Wolf appeared torn, his hands raised awkwardly as if unsure whether to gesture stop or back away in surrender at what he saw. “Perhaps..” He paused, deciding on his words, “On second thought, perhaps you should stay behind. And guard the temple. And by 'temple' I mean Mythigh's Temple.”  
The words had hardly had time to settle before Abelas responded with a succinct, “Nope.” His lips quirked upward at the sight of the Dread Wolf visibly deflating. “In fact,” He continued,” I will head directly to Tarasyl'an Te'las in order to establish protection immediately.” He couldn't help but quirk the corners of his lips as Pride lowered his shoulders, resigned to the decision. He picked up his staff from where it rested against a pillar, then turned to leave this space where he had crafted a copy of perfection.

“Lethallin.” Abelas called out, “You may leave her in my capable hands. I can be trusted.” Years of personal training had kept the smugness from his voice as he spoke, yet he could not help himself from lifting his chin when Pride did not even fully turn toward him. A head turned to the side, and he merely stuttered out, “Ah. ...Alright.” 

Abelas merely smiled as the Wolf trudged out of the room, head hanging low at the realization that once again, he had caused his own Dread.


End file.
